Porcelain
by BlackNymph
Summary: She was quiet and demure, but still held that small bit of naiveté that he found absolutely insufferable if he were a stupider man, he would have killed her the first time she set foot in his workshop.


His first day in the organization, he couldn't help but wonder. These were notorious nukenin, infamous in their own right and with their own chapters in the Bingo Book. These were dangerous and lethal men, and they were bending their will to mere children.

His first day in the organization, he couldn't help but wonder. His first night in the organization, he saw the eyes of his new leader.

He didn't have to wonder anymore. At least not about the boy.

The girl, however, was just as much a mystery as she was the day he set foot into the cavern he would from then on call his home. She was quiet and demure, but still held that small bit of naiveté that he found absolutely insufferable; if he were a stupider man, he would have killed her the first time she set foot in his workshop.

As it were, though, Sasori was not a stupid man. Rather than losing everything he had worked so hard to gain, he found a way to ignore the small, resonating chakra behind him and the soft scraping sound of the folding paper as he worked.

Most of the time, she remained silent; the girl seemed to be content just to sit there and fold her paper birds and flowers, or just to watch him tinker with his dolls. Every once in a while, though, she spoke, her voice a quiet little chirp in the darkness of his workshop.

"Sasori-san?"

He almost started at the sudden noise, but kept his composure long enough to tighten the tourniquet about his leg. He said nothing.

Her fingers moved absently over the paper while she watched him in fascination. "Sasori-san?"

He narrowed his eyes, let out a sigh. "What?" His tone was not kind, but somehow less snappish than usual; he attributed it to the morphine.

The girl paused a moment, seemed to think on her words a bit, fingers working the origami all the while. Finally, she settled on, "Why do you hurt?"

This time, he did jump; the scalpel dug past his calf muscles and he felt it hit the bone vaguely. He couldn't hold back the hiss building in his throat when the blood began to bubble, seeping and swirling elegantly over the tabletop. Sasori leaned awkwardly toward his shelf, groping around the mechanical paraphernalia in search of a rag; finally finding one, he pressed it into the gash, his eyes narrowed to slits.

She tilted her head innocently, eyes wide; she finally placed her folding to the side and rose from her seat, leaning forward to get a better look. Sasori noted that the gleam in her eye was not of horror or of concern, but it was unmistakably awestruck.

'Tsk'ing a bit, he finally peeled away the sopping cloth, satisfied that the blood was no longer flowing freely. He placed the rag to the side and, ignoring the bright eyes now watching his every move, took up the scalpel again; carefully, very carefully, he found the original incision and daintily pushed aside the flesh, ignoring the searing pain that told him the morphine was beginning to wear off.

"Sasori-san?"

He gritted his teeth. "What?"

"You never answered my question." When he said nothing, she pressed, "Why do you hurt, Sasori-san?"

Deftly sliding a thin plastic tube into the now-correct incision, he frowned and glanced at her. "What kind of question is that?" He never meant it to be rude – he never meant anything to be rude, quite honestly – but really, now. Who was she to presume he was in pain?

Softly, she prodded the blood-sodden rag, 'hm'ing thoughtfully; she seemed to be asking herself the same question – did he even hurt to begin with? "You must hurt," she concluded, nodding slightly. "Why else would you go to such lengths to take away your feelings?"

Tilting his head slightly, his gaze softened as he considered. 'Take away his feelings'? Was that what it looked like, to her? Perhaps it would seem that way to those with no artistic perspective – Sasori scowled at the thought. But, he thought, she was a bit of an artist, too; he glanced at the origami she'd set aside. An adenium. He almost smirked.

"Perhaps," he finally said, still watching the paper flower intently, "I'm not taking away my feelings." He fixed her with a somber look, frowning slightly. "Perhaps I'm ensuring that my feelings last forever."

She tilted her head again, contemplatively, squinting at him as though she wasn't quite sure what to make of his response. "I don't think so," she said decidedly, leaning lightly against the worktable and prodding the rag again. "No, I think you're hurting somewhere."

He remained silent, staring at her and still frowning.

The girl nodded lightly, pushing herself away from the table and striding towards the door; as she reached it, she gently reached down and brushed her fingers across the paper petals of her paper flower. Satisfied, she walked to the door, turning just before she exited. "You're not alone, you know. That's the point."

Sasori heard the door click shut before he felt her presence leave the room; through the coppery scent of blood and motor oil, his dimming sense of smell caught on the flowery aroma she left behind. His eyes narrowed once more; he didn't know if he should be disgusted or not.

_You're not alone, you know._

With a sigh, he pinched the end of the thin plastic tube and removed it, stemming the flow of blood from his leg, and prodded warily at the shockingly white skin that remained on his leg. Nothing; a ghost of a smile moved across his lips, and he picked up the scalpel again.

_That's the point._

She didn't return to his workshop for a while after that, keeping only as much distance to him as she kept with the others. Every so often, during meals, he would catch her watching him with a soft, curious expression on her face, her lips tilted upwards ever-so-slightly.

Finally, after three months, he had whittled away at what remained of his weak human body, the only part remaining being his heart; finally, after three months, she returned to her usual seat, still folding her paper quietly.

Carefully opening the wooden canister he'd crafted with a twitch of his fingers, he pressed the still-beating muscle inside, waiting a moment when a beat skipped before gently closing the canister again, hissing only out of reflex as the pounding pushed against the wood.

"Sasori-san?"

Sasori said nothing, but closed his eyes for just a moment and slid the container into his palm, pausing as he knew he should. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed the end against the cavity in his chest.

"Sasori-san."

He grunted, barely; this was no time for her to play her childish little games. Getting this placement right was paramount, he reminded himself, and attempted to block out her voice, continuing to gently push the beating container into his chest.

"I've figured out why you hurt."

If he'd had any feeling left, he would have felt the breath brush or the vibration of her voice against his ear; he kept his grip on his composure, squaring his shoulders resolutely. Only a few more centimeters..

Gazing thoughtfully at the taut, chemically-tinged skin on his neck, she reached out, dragging her fingers slowly across his shoulders. "Personally, Sasori-san," she said, "I don't know which would be worse: to feel pain, or to feel nothing." She closed her eyes and gave a sigh. "Sasori-san, you hurt because you don't hurt," she told him, softly.

His eyelids fluttered shut; he steeled himself, his heart still thump-thumping in its little box, and gave one final push.


End file.
